


Just Here to Say Thank You

by Darkhymns



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Altertale, Backstory, F/M, Family, Friendship, Swapped Roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhymns/pseuds/Darkhymns
Summary: Baking pies and storytime. And Sans has some tales to share…





	Just Here to Say Thank You

**Author's Note:**

> Done for Soriel Week 2017, Day 6: AU Day.
> 
> This is based off of [friisans'](http://friisans.tumblr.com) Altertale AU, where Sans and Toriel (and others) swap roles. Sort of a follow-up to my [previous fic,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6861334)though I don’t know if this is as romantic-filled? I went with an idea and I tried my best. Hope you enjoy!

It was 2 A.M., but Toriel wasn’t sleeping.

She used to stress-bake back in the day. Fevered dreams of a familiar face, paternal yet scarred, would trail after her during her regular paths through Snowdin. It would keep her up at night, and only the wafting smells of cinnamon could soothe her anxious nerves. With her winter coat still worn, and her small hands engulfed in oven mitts, she’d bake several assortments of pies and other pastries, eating a finished slice as she went off to start another. Sometimes her brother would be around, brewing some goldenflower tea, but he never understood just why she would do the things she did.

He didn’t know what it was like when the past caught up with you unexpectedly.

But tonight, Toriel wasn’t the one full of frets today. Someone had knocked on her door – a door of the home she and Asgore got once they reached the Surface, roof tiles now only covered with fallen leaves instead of snow – rousing her from her brief nap. It was still hard for her to sleep for long periods of time, but she wasn’t as fraught with insomnia spells as she used to be.

When she opened the door, she was greeted to the face of Sans, tall in his flowing, dark robes, and a constant smile on his face. “ey, so you got my text?”

Toriel had craned her head up at him, scrunching her forehead. She then reached for her phone in her pocket, and checked her messages. “Uh, I didn’t receive anything…”

She felt bony fingers press against her jacket. Looking down, there was a post-it note stuck to her shoulder. It was even planted upside-down, so that she could read it from her angle.

In lowercase letters, it said,  _wanna chill?_

Now, Toriel would never miss an opportunity to spend time with Sans. He was very charming, and the time they spent together on the Surface had been one of the most memorable. (She still blushed at the kiss they had shared just a few weeks ago).

But she noticed something then. His eyes – or, uh, eye sockets, actually. He looked very tired.

With a gentle smile, she took his hand, unearthing it from its home beneath the sleeves of his robes. She had gotten braver with her touches – he never seemed to mind them. “Come in, old man. Let’s whip up some dessert for you.”

A couple of pies later, (despite his thin frame, Sans could gulp down quite a mouthful at a time) and Sans remained seated at the kitchen table. He sat a little stooped, eyes closed and looking ready to nap in his chair, yet still bore a regal presence that made Toriel much too aware of her own shortcomings. (Heh, short. He’d like that, she was sure). With a cup of Asgore’s reheated tea in her hands, she waited. She didn’t mind.

Sans opened his eyes, raising them to her. “got something to tell you. it’s a bit of a downer though.”

Toriel would be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t worried. “Was it the pie? Too much butter?” she tried to joke.

Sans laughed slightly. “nah, nothing that serious.” He looked back down at the table. “ever been too afraid to sleep because you think you’ll remember something you don’t want to?”

Toriel gripped her tea cup. “Sometimes.”

“well.” He shrugged. “it’s already happened to me, so…” Another pause. Was he nervous? But he was usually so calm. “i thought i might as well tell you some things. unless you don’t want me to.”

She considered. A smirk graced her muzzle. “Do you want me to want you to?”

And then he smiled at her.

And then he told her.

* * *

.

.

.

Out of all the monsters, humans detested the skeletons most of all.

So, Sans figured, it must have really rubbed salt in their wounds whenever their kings and queens had to meet with the monster’s own. They probably would have preferred fire-breathing dragons, some cloven-hoofed demons, or maybe a furrier version of a boss monster. Some humans, the ones that didn’t outright hate them, seemed to like those with a cuddly disposition.

Skeletons didn’t have fur. Just hard, jutting bones. Just wide, stark smiles. “They’re a mockery of us,” he once heard one of them say.

Well, that’s fine. Sans had a sense of humor, and what better way to show it than by being a walking joke?

Back in those old days, Sans barely took anything seriously, even with an impossible-to-win war looming over their skulls. His father had warned him of this. But the old man’s words barely got through to him. It didn’t matter anyway. He had already abdicated his inheritance over the crown, preferring to let his younger brother take on the responsibility for the most part. Papyrus was perfectly happy with the idea, and he had always been the favorite of the two siblings. So it was a win-win for everybody.

Still, that didn’t get him out of having to go to another royal meet-and-greet with both his father and brother. His mother wouldn’t be coming along, already carrying another little babybones on the way. And not because she would be physically unable to, but only to escape another round of widened/not-so-subtly disgusted looks. Apparently, the explanation of ‘We’re monster skeletons made of magic, not your dead kind’ wasn’t enough for them to explain away the logistics of monsterbirth.

This meeting would be good training for Papyrus, but his father insisted that Sans needed to know the process as well. And here he thought demoting himself down to ‘co-king’ would make things easier on himself, but instead the workload for that position just kept growing by the day. Sure, fine. He’d go, but he’d make it worthwhile.

When they entered the grand hall of the human’s castle, the looks of shock on everybody’s faces showed that his joke was already working.

Centuries later, Sans could still remember the overbearing brow line on the king’s face. He could remember the flock of human nobles gathered nearby, fanning themselves in protest. He could remember the queen’s deepening frown, the color draining from her cheeks. He could definitely remember the sigh coming from his own father’s throat, and the nervous shifted look in Papyrus’ eye sockets, his purple mantle draped over his bony shoulders, new and unwrinkled.

Sans, wearing his usual dark cloak, walked forward silently. In his right hand, he twirled a scythe he had found one day in one of the fields. Its handle was long and black, its curved blade nicked, reflecting the dull light of the torches that hung in sconces from the stone walls.

With a flourish, he laid the top section of the scythe over his shoulder, giving the human royals a wink. “hey, how’s it going?”

His greeting was followed by the dull thud of his father face-palming.

* * *

The war didn’t last long. Neither did his parents.

Spooky skeletons should have found themselves quite at home within the dark, dank caves, or so the humans had yelled at them, watching the monsters march themselves down into exile. But there was nothing further from the truth. They were used to the sunshine warming their joints, used to the wind that blew through their ribcages. The echoing caves did nothing for them except amplified the creaking of their bones.

Monster souls were made of love, hope and compassion. The humans had taken all of these away with their victory. It was too much for his folks, and so they died, leaving him and Papyrus with their newly-born sibling.

“BROTHER, WHAT SHOULD WE CALL HIM?” Papyrus asked him.  _King Papyrus._  It fit him, Sans thought. The crown was placed neatly on his cranium, and he held their old man’s bone trident with ease. The monsters needed a leader now more than ever, and Papyrus was perfect for it; ever optimistic, and always ready to comfort his loyal subjects with a plate of spaghetti at the ready.

Sans was holding their brother in his arms, the little tyke having fallen asleep. He was light, which was to be expected as he was nothing but bones, but still, it was something. The baby skelly wore one of Papyrus’ hand-me-downs, the shirt overlarge for his tiny body. His hands couldn’t even make it out of the long sleeves.

“hm, s’gotta have a nice ring to it,” Sans mused aloud. Then his smile got even wider. “heh, or a  _ding_ to it actually.”

Papyrus groaned. “SANS, NO-”

“you could even say it’s gotta have-”

“SANS, WE AGREED TO BE SERIOUS ABOUT THIS-”

“a  _wing-ding_ , to it, hehe.”

“NYEEEH!”

His baby bro blinked open dark eye sockets, little lights floating within them. Those lights increased gradually in their intensity, accompanied by soft laughter. Hands reached out to Sans’ face, breaking free from their sleeves. He could still see his bro’s smile through the holes within those hands, ecstatic and innocent and no idea of the tragedy that had befallen all of them.

“see, he loves it.”

“BUT HE NEEDS A SENSIBLE NAME, ONE PASSED DOWN THROUGH OUR SKELETON GENERATIONS.” Papyrus walked up them both as regally as his skeletal royalty had taught him. “WE SHOULD NAME HIM GASTER, NAMED AFTER KING GASTER THE VI, WHO WAS THE LEADING CHAMPION OF THE PASTA BAKEOFF MANY MILENNIA AGO. ISN’T THAT WHAT YOU WOULD LIKE, SMALL GASTER?”

The baby laughed even more, hands grasping at Papyrus’ jaw with eagerness.

“HE APPROVES OF IT.”

“can’t argue with that.” Sans then came up with an idea. “hey, how about a compromise? since he likes both of them, why not use both?”

“SO WE WILL NAME HIM WINGDINGS GASTER?”

“nah, too long. w.d. gaster obviously.” Sans winked at his king/brother. “rolls right off the non-existent tongue.”

Thus, Prince W.D. Gaster was named. Seeing his little bro’s smile at the name, Sans started to believe that things didn’t seem so bad anymore.

* * *

Sans had never been good at the role of being a father, it was hard enough being other-king/counselor. But he’d take on being a big brother any day.

When the first human kid fell into the Underground, that was what he became to them. He’d learn from experience that kids always preferred the cool, older sibling than their parents. Papyrus would tag along with him when they were younger, and Gaster loved being at Sans’ heels, eager to learn another fun frogs fact, or a brief description of a sky he had never seen. The human, while not much of a talker, would always silently hang by Sans’ side, holding onto his hand, and smile whenever their favorite chocolate-filled hotpockets were made.

Interestingly enough, besides coming to him for good foods and bad jokes, people came to him to ask for his advice. He never really understood that last part; he was just a lazybones that couldn’t even take on the full role of being a king. Yet even his way cool bro, Papyrus, came to him for help. People were weird sometimes.

Being the cool older bro took some work still. He never reprimanded Gaster and the human whenever they went off on their own, and never questioned too hard of either of them when they had their secret conversations. Kids will be kids after all, and even when Papyrus wondered why they hung out by the flowers so much, Sans shrugged and said, “don’t have such a  _stigma_  against them, bro.”

There was no reason to take things so seriously. The Underground wasn’t so bad, and his family was happy. That was all he needed.

And then the children died.

* * *

Weeks later after the incident, Sans had left his brother a note. It was pinned to the fridge, specifically at the freezer section where all his frozen meals were kept. His robes had felt heavy on that day, yet his soul felt calm. Sans had always been a simple skeleton, preferring the easy way out of things instead of effort.

Papyrus had always liked effort over none, had always liked doing the impossible over the simple. Yet even Sans didn’t think that, for Papyrus, that meant taking on the new goal of getting out of the Underground through the souls of the fallen.

And here he thought Papyrus took his advice.

Using a tiny frog magnet, Sans left the post-it note on the fridge. Blinking dry eye sockets, (skeletons had no tear ducts after all), and with an ever-lasting grin on his face, (can’t exactly frown when you had no lips), the oldest skeleton of the royal monarchy left New Home and all of its reminders.

Papyrus found the note the next day after wondering why no new hot pockets were cooking in the oven.

_i quit,_  it was written.

Sans always preferred the simple way of doing things.

* * *

As a new guardian of the ruins, Sans had new responsibilities. And as he was Sans, he failed in them all.

The children seemed to always like him enough at first – cool older bro, after all. But they would always leave him afterwards, always needing to move forward, even when he told them that once they left the Ruins, they would die. But it seemed no one was taking his advice anymore.

So he tried the next best thing: bribing.

“sure you don’t want to hear another frog fact? they’re really quite  _ribbeting.”_

“stay here and i’ll make you all the greasy food you’d ever want. how about some pepperoni hot pockets? but you wouldn’t reject an old-fashioned ham-and-cheese kind, would ya?”

“come on, kid. i’ll show ya the best shortcuts this side of the ruins. free of charge even. can’t beat a deal like that.”

But all Sans could really offer were lame jokes that dated back a century ago. And he had learned long before that jokes can only go so far. Even for a walking joke like himself.

When the last kid left him, Sans couldn’t even muster up a fake chuckle.

Still, he didn’t weep. Still, he didn’t let down his smile. He might have stared after the Ruins doors for a couple of days, as silent as death itself, but he never overreacted or anything like that.

No tear ducts, after all.

* * *

The froggits and whimsuns avoided him nowadays. Perhaps there was something odd about a tall skeleton, draped in black robes, shuffling his way through the fallen red leaves in strange silence. Even stranger when they saw his bleak smile and empty eyes from his lowered hood. On those rare occasions when they talked to him, (reluctantly, always reluctantly) his voice would be calm and relaxed. Too relaxed, too unconnected, sending a chill down their spines (even to the monsters who were spineless).

Sans, past co-king, hot pockets enthusiast, and lover of frogs, was not exactly a joy to be around. He moved among the Ruins, day in and day out. He’d check the entrance with the flowers, he’d skip the puzzles with his teleports, and he’d bake his famous home-cooked hot pockets, leaving leftovers for no one by himself.

It’s a bit funny, if you think about it.

At some point, he wanted a change in routine, a chance to leave his home full of children’s mementos and photographs of a certain babybones. He went to the Ruins door, sat his back against it, and raised his dark eye sockets to the ceiling.

_heh,_  he thought after a while.  _it’s like the set up for a really bad joke._

With a shrug, Sans raised up his hand to the door, his bare knuckles ready to knock against stone.

But someone beat him to it.

_-Knock knock!-_

Sans froze. His hand was still raised, but he dared not move an inch. He dared not even breathe. Probably one of the few times he was glad that he had no lungs to breathe into.

“Who’s there?” someone answered for him. It was a light voice, female, with a lazy air that he could definitely identify with…or give him a run for his money. She spoke like it took all the effort in the world, yet with a tone that was warm, inviting, and just all around nice to listen to.

“A herd,” she continued. “A herd who? A herd you were home so I came right on over!”

Oh god.

Sans’ ribs nearly rattled at the punchline.

That was so, so bad.

“Haha, well, I know nobody’s home.” He heard a shift behind that thick room. She must have been getting comfy against it. “But that’s okay, door. I know you’ll always have my back, ha.”

It was  _so_  bad. And Sans loved it.

Wrapping his thin arms around his thinner legs, he placed his skull against the door and listened to her.

Her voice was the nicest thing he had heard in years.

* * *

After only a week, Sans realized he’d fallen skull-over-heels for the door lady. Just hearing her speak was the highlight of his long, uneventful day. First check on the flowers, feed the frogs, bake some more hot pockets, then unwind by laying against that giant door. He’d stretch out his long legs, shut his eye sockets, and just  _relax._

Her voice was something else; airy, gentle, and warm.

And she had such a talent for bad jokes.

“Knock, knock. Who’s there? A door. Ha, I know but bear with me. A door who? Wait for it… aren’t I a-door-able? Ah, yeah, that one’s not reaching anyone’s ears this century.”

It was a good thing he had no ears then.

One night however, she stayed longer than usual, way past the few hours she’d normally take. She had a job, from what he gathered, and a brother that would miss her if she was gone. But for right now, she didn’t go just yet. In fact, it seemed she had a hard time of leaving.

“Ya know, door,” she said, her voice low, and a little melancholy. “I feel like I can’t move my legs. Ha, guess I got the  _shivers._ ”

Sans smiled, but he didn’t laugh. This time, he knew it was no joke.

“I wish I could tell Asgore these things… about dad, about… back then. But it wouldn’t matter, right? The past is the past. There’s not much use in remembering it.”

But sometimes you couldn’t help but remember it, couldn’t you?

“Ah, I’m just… being silly. I should be getting home.” But she didn’t. He heard her shift against the door like it was her only friend, and he imagined her in a variety of ways. She had a somewhat low voice, but soft and light. The sound of it came from below his shoulder, and beneath that tone was a spark, of something that resembled a warm fireplace. He liked fireplaces. They warmed his old, tired bones.

There was another knock at his door. “Knock, knock.”

“who’s there?”

He stopped. Uh oh. That, that just happened, didn’t it?

She didn’t answer right away. He expected to hear the crunching of snow as she ran away from the creepy voice behind the door. Or maybe a reprimand, that once safe fireplace soon turning up the heat, until the flames threatened to melt the stones.

Instead, he heard her say, “Bacon.”

Sans grinned. “bacon who?”

“We need to  _bacon_  up a sec, you didn’t tell me your name!”

He doubled over laughing, and heard her own giggles join him, muffled through the door, but genuine. “that was a stretch, you know.”

“Yeah, not one of my better moments.”

Yet still, he couldn’t stop laughing. He continued to laugh, his ribs aching, his old bones clacking together as he wrapped both bony arms around his frame. The way the caverns amplified his voice probably made it unsettling, he was sure. An old skeleton cackling within the deep, dank darkness of the caves – the humans would have loved that for sure.

And once they stopped shivering, he was sure the kids would have loved it, too.

Sans wiped a hand over his cheekbones, and felt something damp. Oh. A tear. And more tears. This old cackling skeleton was crying. Who ever heard of such a thing?

He continued laughing and the tears kept flowing.

There was more crunching of snow – of her moving, shifting towards the door. “Are you okay?” She had noticed the change in his laugh.

What a bad first impression.

With a furious wiping of eye sockets with his long sleeves, Sans took a deep breath. Still, there had been something freeing about it, something he couldn’t quite name or understand. And all it took was a knock-knock joke that barely even made any sense.

“Hello?” A little knock accompanied her voice, but this was for more than just a set-up to a joke. “Is everything okay? If you need some cheering up, I got some extra pie with me.”

You shouldn’t make your friends worry.

“m’fine,” he said, leaning back against the door. “in fact, i’ve never been better.”

.

.

.

* * *

When Toriel checked the time, it was already 6 A.M.

There’s something to be said about watching the sunrise. Just a big ball of fire that peeked over the horizon, like a long-lost and somewhat shy friend. Being skilled with fire magic, she had to admit she felt a bit of a connection to it. Its natural heat heated her fur in such a way, though, that her own magic couldn’t do.

Sans loved the sun, because it soothed those old, creaking joints of his.

They sat out on the porch together, having moved from out of the house during his story-telling. The air was filled with silence after – only broken by brief spouts of singing birds.

“hey, would you look at that,” Sans finally said. “the flowers are blooming, too.”

So they were. Asgore’s flowers, that surrounded their house, bloomed even more beautifully out here on the Surface.

She took his hand, warmed by the sun.

“Someday, I’ll tell you about my own… past mistakes,” she promised. The winter coat made her fur a little sweaty, but she couldn’t help the fact that she kept sinking herself into it. “I know I should be able to, and I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me about all that happened.” She thought back; into the darkness, into nothing, into the void that doesn’t exist.

Sans turned to her. “you don’t owe me anything though.” He squeezed her hand back. “i told you that story because i wanted to. oh, and as a thank you.” He winked. “hadn’t laughed-cried that hard at a joke in a long time.”

That made her blush. Why did this anxiety-ridden little goat had to blush whenever this old man skeleton was involved? Toriel reflexively put up her hood over her head, making sure to fit it over her horns. “Then, should I say you’re welcome?”

“yep.” A mischievous glint lit his eyes. “now, how about another kiss?”

Toriel squealed, curling into herself until she was just a mass of fur and winter clothing. Sans patted her head, hands still warm, and his chuckle an infectious thing.

The sun continued to shine.


End file.
